This is my last letter to you. You died two days ago at the age of 40 from complications of AIDS. You and I will not be able to communicate as we did in the past. I shall miss you, Rob, for your warmth, with, intelligence, insight, commitment, and most of all, for your love.
When I first began reading soc.motss two and a half years ago, yours was one of the most prominent names of the newsgroup. You were soc.motss to me. I remember so well looking for articles which you authored, noting them for their unique perspective and sound basis of reasoning. From your messages came forth a kind, just, and fair personality.
What quality of yours most drew me to you, before we met? You especially felt the great injustice of discrimination and the many forms of its manifestations. Whether exposing public attitudes of prejudice and hypocrisy in our laws and government, or highlighting how none of us is immune from its debilitating effects, you always applied your keen insight to the issues which came before the newsgroup. In yourself you were vigilant in applying calm reason to your prejudices. To me you quickly became a role model in this regard.
We first began our voluminous correspondence on March 12, 1991, only 3 days after your thirty-ninth birthday. At first our only common interests were articles which appeared on the soc.motss and misc.fitness newsgroups. Our first letters to each other were short messages related to these articles. In June, our correspondence accelerated quite rapidly. I went to Provincetown for my vacation in early August, and came back to find a long letter from you. Our daily routine started with this. After that, you and I were in daily contact which stopped only with your final illness three weeks ago.
Can I possibly say how much my relationship with you meant? No, I don't think so. During the first two months of our daily communication last summer, we began to know each other in much more detail. We talked about our shared and distinct interests. We flirted and played games. We talked endlessly about sex -- with our boyfriends, tricks, and yes, with each other. From these letters I learned that you enjoyed a country lifestyle, had interests in rodeos, horse riding, and country western music. I also learned that we had many common interests -- among them gay culture, politics, classical music, weight training, our family relationships, and most importantly, our beliefs and values. They weren't the values that Dan Quayle espouses, but they were admirable and good.
You didn't know that I specifically arranged a weekend trip to San Francisco for the sole purpose of meeting you, when I had a business trip last October in Los Angeles. I was overjoyed at the hospitality which you tendered me on this visit. I remember so clearly the circumstances of the day when we finally met. I flew from Philadelphia to San Francisco on Thursday, October 24, 1991 and arrived at The Willows in the Castro district. We had dinner together, and you took me to an avant garde play, "The Love Diatribe" (which we both disliked). I remember seeing you for the first time, walking up the narrow steps of the hotel to greet me. You were exactly as I expected from your archived picture, but the picture failed to capture your beautiful blue-green eyes.
On the following day, I went to the gym with you in Concord. I saw your wonderful home, your horse Oriana (whom you loved so faithfully) and the basic artifacts of the life you loved. You took me to the Grand National Rodeo at the Cow Palace. On the following day, you cooked me a wonderful breakfast of homemade pancakes, and then we went for a long scenic drive. That evening, you hosted a soc.motss dinner where I met several soc.motss readers, including your close friend Chuck Fisher. Finally, you took me to your favorite bar in San Francisco, the Rawhide, of which I had recently read in Armistead Maupin's "Tales of the City" series. We discussed that book series extensively, do you remember?
I clearly remember saying goodbye to you the following morning, before I flew to Los Angeles for the business aspect of my trip. I was very sorry to part company, knowing how unique and special a friend I had made. When I returned to Philadelphia five days later, we resumed our electronic correspondence but from a much closer, personal, and intimate angle.
Do you remember some of things we wrote to each other? We discussed classical music at great length. Your great love for Chaikovskij's Fifth Symphony in particular -- you sent me the Kenfield notes on it! I'm looking at them right now. You confided in me that no discussion made you feel more emotional or passionate than a discussion of Chaikovskij's Fifth Symphony. You told me about how much that particular homoerotic interpretation of the symphony affected you as a younger man.
In November you were ill with a bad cold and your beloved friend Mark Nilson died. It was at this point that you told me your HIV status, for which I sympathized with you from the bottom of my heart. I was gravely sorry for the ordeal which was to face you. Looking back on that period, I developed a sense of denial that your battle with AIDS lay far into the future, even though you frankly told me that your medical statistics indicated otherwise. I suppose that I denied this to myself, refusing to accept what you had to endure constantly.
Your fortieth birthday was in March this year. I planned on attending, and looked so forward to it. On the day of the trip, however, I became physically sick myself, and forlornly concluded that I could not come. How sad I was all weekend, for having failed you and let you down! To this day I'll regret missing your last birthday. You forgave me for not coming for your birthday, but I know it must have hurt you deeply.
In early June we made plans for cross-country trips for the summer. You were to have traveled to New York to visit your family in the middle of July, followed by a trip to Madison, WI to visit Jess Anderson. I was to have gone to San Francisco to see you in the middle of August. Again I looked forward to seeing you, counting the days and weeks -- for the third time! Alas, it was not meant to me, that I would see you as a healthy man.
Then your final decline (and only major illness) came. You went to Donner Lake with Chuck Fisher for the weekend of July fourth, and told me afterwards that you felt like "an old man" when you climbed a hill there. Shortly afterwards, you were sick enough to postpone your New York trip, and then canceled it. My last and 386th message from you said, "I realize I owe you a letter. I'm feeling quite ill and weak. I'll see if I have the energy to respond later today." It was dated Tuesday, July 21, 1992.
Once again I was on my way to Provincetown for my vacation, not knowing that our relationship would come to a close exactly one year after it began. Concerned about you while en route, I called you and you told me that you had pneumocystis. You could not talk for very long, so I simply told you to get better soon. In my worst nightmares I never thought it'd be the last time I would hear your voice.
When I returned from Provincetown a week later, you had been in the hospital for six days. Over the course of the next three to four days, Chuck Fisher gave increasingly negative reports about your condition. At the end of the week, hearing but not believing that your death was imminent, I knew that I had to see you. There was simply no question, I just had to. So I flew to San Francisco to see you, and I humbly thank God that I made that trip.
Before I got to see you I had no idea what kind of comfort to offer. When I walked into your room, however, my fears fell away and I knew that the only important thing to say was "I love you, you've meant so much to me." Off and on for the rest of the day, I held your hand, talked to you, and stroked your forehead. When we first met you loved it when I stroked your forehead. I figure that it must have meant something to you then, too.
You were deeply tanned, even though you'd been sick for several weeks. Just before you got sick you told me how dark you were getting, saying "if whatever infection I have kills me, I'll look great when I go." I hope you didn't know the truth of your statement.
You opened your eyes many times and nodded when I asked you questions such as, "Do you know that I love you?" Your eyes were still the same beautiful blue- green, except that they were sunken, drowsy from fighting, and yearning for relief.
I flew home from San Francisco the following day, crying for your pain and my own helplessness and rage at seeing you so ill. When I said "good-night" to you before leaving and kissed you on your forehead, I knew that I was really saying goodbye. On arriving in Philadelphia, denial set in and I once again reassured myself that you would survive. However, deep down I knew that was not possible and that it was better for you to die without a struggle. Even if you had survived, you would have faced more painful illnesses. In that sense you are lucky, not to have endured the protracted horrors which AIDS has inflicted on its many other victims.
Chuck called me just after you died at 2:40 p.m. PDT on Thursday, August 13, 1992. When I heard his voice on the other end of the line I knew what news would follow. "So it's true then, he's gone?" I said. The shock failed to set in for several minutes. When it did, I repeated as I sobbed, "I just can't believe it." It was my refrain for what seemed at eternity. It's still so unfathomable to think that so vivid a person as you is gone.
I will attend your funeral in New York on Monday. Next month, I will try to go to California for a memorial service at the house you loved so much. David will go with me, the David whom you never met but heard so much about. He will be a help to me. I need to do these things -- your funeral, memorial service, write to you, remember you -- to mourn my loss of you.
This letter is part of that effort. I owe you a great debt for the companionship you gave me in our very unique relationship. Since seeing you last Saturday in person, not a minute has passed that I haven't thought of you. You've been in my dreams since that day, too. In the future, you will be with me too. You are an indivisible part of my life experience and you will be remembered -- forever.
You once fretted to me that you didn't think what you did in life would have lasting value, and you spoke mainly of intellectual achievements. By themselves they surely were important. I reminded you, however, of your effect on me and others in your life and the difference knowing you has made on all of us. I hope this helped. I hope that in your final illness that the long parade of friends along with your sister Claire brought you to realizing how deeply people cared for you. You made a lasting impression on all of us.
You once told me that you treasured our friendship. Well, I treasured it too. And I'll continue to treasure the letters you wrote to me. They are your legacy to me. I have them all and have been leafing through them for the past week, remembering the wonderful times we had reading and writing them. I will cherish them forever, along with your other gifts to me.
Today I bought a CD of Chaikovskij's Fifth Symphony and I've been playing it as I completed writing this letter. That work of music, along with your comments on it, will for me be forever associated with you.
Perhaps this is not my last letter to you! In the long years to come, I will often think about you, and feel your energy. Time will put a distance to our relationship, give it perspective and history. However, I've locked you into my heart forever and there you will remain. I love you, Rob, and I know you love me.
Love,
Jim
